


Sleepy Johnny

by letitmclennon



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, McLennon, Paris (City), Paris Honeymoon, Photographs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 09:09:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12317991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letitmclennon/pseuds/letitmclennon
Summary: John's soft snoring filled the room of the little hotel they had found in Paris. His face was well hidden in the crook of Paul's neck and his breath was tickling him pleasantly."Lucky you, Johnny." Paul thought, caressing his companion's arm that was holding him almost possessively.[Happy birthday, John]





	Sleepy Johnny

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there and happy birthday. I tried to translate this fic I wrote in 2012 for John's birthday. It is the second fic I wrote about the Beatles. I'm not translating all the fics in chronological order.  
> I hope you like it. :3

_Paris, October 9, 1961_

John's soft snoring filled the room of the little hotel they had found in Paris. His face was well hidden in the crook of Paul's neck and his breath was tickling him pleasantly.

"Lucky you, Johnny." Paul thought, caressing his companion's arm that was holding him almost possessively.

He turned to the bedside table on his right side. It was half past three in the morning and Paul let out a sigh.

Unlike John, that night Paul couldn’t sleep. His most bohemian side claimed he wasn’t sleeping because sleeping in Paris was a colossal waste of time. Actually, his insomnia was linked to a much more plausible reason: overdose of banana milkshakes. He had devoured too much of them and John was pampering him, buying all the milkshakes he wanted. But things would change, at least for that one day. It was John's birthday, it was special. A lad didn’t turn twenty-one every day. Paul had to give him a gift, however limited his capitals were.

John, on the other hand, didn’t seem particularly excited about that goal. The hundred quid given to him had electrified him, yes, as well as the idea of doing that trip with Paul alone, but that birthday matter was different. Now he was sleeping quietly. But, thinking about it, John could sleep in any situation. He also slept when he was awake sometimes. His expression was so... sleepy. He always seemed like he had woken up with that scratched and deep voice and a terrible case of bedhead, a style between Elvis Presley and... and ... John Lennon.

Paul tried turning to him, in spite of his arm tightening him. When he found John’s face a few inches from his own, he smiled. They had known each other for a few years now, yet they had already shared so many things that could be enough for a lifetime. First the Quarrymen, now the Beatles. And then there were them, John and Paul: two faces of the same medal, two half of a whole. From the very first moment in which his gaze had settled on that young lad, Paul had the feeling of knowing John for a lifetime. It didn’t take long to understand that there were two Johns who shared the same body.

There was John, that young, self-confident talent with a singular sense of humor and with a little bit of arrogance, which he had no problem showing to anyone.

And then there was John, the little insecure Johnny with his constant fear of being refused by people around him and being abandoned. John who hid behind those thick glasses to protect himself from the crude reality of the world, John looking for Paul and smiling at him like they were partners in crime, John holding him during the night not to let him go.

John, who loved Paul.

John, whom Paul loved.

And now he was there, little Johnny, and was sleeping next to him, with the sweetest and most serene expression Paul had ever seen on his face. Who knows when he would see it again.

All of a sudden an idea flashed in his mind faster than the speed of light.

Paul chuckled softly and, with extreme caution, tried to get out of bed. He moved slowly not to wake John, otherwise his plan would vanish. But as soon as he got up, the floor creaked.

Bloody parquet!

The room was so small and he only had to reach the armchair near the window on the opposite side of the bed, yet with that continuous creaking the distance seemed infinite. In the end Paul managed to get to the armchair and miraculously John kept on sleeping. He had only moved a little, curling up forward as if he was looking for Paul.

The lad grabbed the camera resting on the armchair and then sat down. He pulled the camera out of the case, opened the lens, and placed it in position to frame John.

Here it is, the expression Paul loved, ready to be immortalized with a simple gesture of his finger. Though the room was in the dark, there was a small light coming through the window: the dim, flickering light of a street lamp. And it lighted his John. It seemed that Paris was pushing him to take that picture.

So Paul decided and clicked on the button. If John discovered it, he would certainly be angry. But Paul knew very well how to be forgiven, and yet John could never bear a grudge against him for too long.

Looking forward to that scene, Paul put the camera back in the case and then quietly returned into the bed. Its warmth wrapped him up again and Paul noticed that he had sort of missed it, as short as his tour of the room had been. He leaned over and turned his back to John, trying not to wake him, but the other moved and Paul sighed, cursing himself under his breath.

"Where have you been?" John asked with his sleepy voice, as he hugged Paul from behind and pulled him close to his body.

"Taking a picture."

"What?" John exclaimed surprised.

"Taking a fucking photo, John!" Paul replied, giggling.

"And what was the subject of this photo?"

"Something I really like."

John didn’t answer right away, taking a moment to think about what, in the middle of the night, in that empty little room with a single window on a quiet street in Paris, could possibly have attracted Paul's attention in order to force him to stand up and take a fucking photo.

"For example? Sleepy Paris?"

Paul chuckled, turned to him and shook his head.

“What about sleepy John Lennon?" He asked, leaning his hand over his cheek.

John laughed. Then his amused look changed and became more mischievous, and the next moment, John slowly climbed on top of Paul’s body.

"I say..." he whispered in his ear, "John Lennon is no longer sleepy!"

"And this is a problem, right?"

"I guess. Yes, it is, because now John is claiming his birthday present!"

Paul smiled and closed his eyes and soon, John's lips were kissing him in the most passionate kiss.

"Happy birthday, Johnny!" Paul whispered on his lips.

After all, an annoying insomnia could also have some positive implications.

*****

_London, October 9, 2011_

Was it a gust of wind? 

Not very likely, the windows were all closed.

However, Paul was sure to have felt that hot breath that touched his lips. And it had woken him. He looked at the watch on the bedside table. It was half past three in the morning?

The old man sat and looked around trying to figure out where he was. So, it was his hotel room in London and above all, it was the night before his wedding. His third marriage. But this time it would have been better. Nancy was a brilliant and intelligent woman. They would have been happy together. And that was one of the reasons why he wasn’t nervous at all, and that night he had fallen asleep quietly.

Then that thing woke him, something that wanted to keep him awake, not caring about the fact that Paul had to sleep. In fact it was almost certain that it wasn’t something, but rather… _someone_. Someone who came to him to claim his birthday present.

"Thank you very much, Johnny." Paul whispered annoyed.

Actually, he couldn’t be any happier. Moments like this happened exactly once in a year since John was gone. And Paul waited for this day with the patience that only a man of his age could have, but also with the same passion of that night spent in Paris. Though fifty years had passed, the memory of that night was still vivid in his mind.

He recalled John's breath tickling his neck, his possessive embrace, the serene expression of his face which Paul had succeeded in immortalizing.

John's expression... his John…

Paul suddenly stood up and reached the armchair across the room, where his clothes were left. He searched in the pockets of his jacket until he found his wallet. He started looking for that picture as he went back to bed. Eventually he found it in a small pocket.

It was an old photo, a photo that was fifty years old right today. It was slightly yellow, the edges were a little ruined, but John was there. He was sleeping as quiet as if nothing could disturb him. And how could it be otherwise? That night there was nothing to worry about, only John and Paul and Paris watching over them.

Paul caressed that picture with two fingers. In the picture John was sleeping, but in a few moments he would wake up and would help Paul to relax in order to finally sleep somehow.

Even in reality John was asleep, but he wouldn’t wake up any more, he wouldn’t embrace him or look to him with the sweet mischief in his eyes and on his lips, nor would he whisper his name as only his voice was able to do.

And one day Paul would fall asleep too, and he was sure that at his awakening, he would find John beside him, not sleepy anymore. And maybe he would make fun of him because he had been waiting for Paul for so many years alone, in such a strange, white place as John liked, yes, but perhaps not very suitable for his messy soul.

But until that moment...

"Goodnight , Johnny, and a happy birthday."


End file.
